If it comes to pass that I am suddenly and mysteriously disfigured become either too emotionally or physically scarred, or both, to explain how my face was marred by a giant fireball, please alert the proper authorities and explain that my hair dryer is trying to kill me. Oh, it's been uncooperative for some time now, refusing to retract its retractable cords, blowing out the fuse when you turn it to high, and refusing to blow cool air, but the dryer's evil machinations have really been coming together this past week and I fear for my life each morning I use it. It's has started hissing and making crackling noises but I know that if I ever turn it toward me to study the machinery, something will pop out and burn my eyes off. Like a very patient time bomb, it's just waiting for me to slip. I don't know how much longer I can hold off.
To add a note of levity to this entry about my impending disfigurement, Leash has the greatest stories in the world, like how for 23 years, her grandparents had given her the same three cards for birthday, Christmas, and Chinese New Year, and her dad always took it from her drawer and returned the cards to her grandparents, who would dole out the same card at the appropriate occasion. And for 23 years, our little genius did not notice.
Oh, and my job may not be as secure as I think. So I'm walking and talking with NiceDoc (that's what magnates do, they walk and talk business at the same time) and he jokes that I should fire him (firing people instead of being fired, how refreshing for a change)...
Moi: That guy (pointing to Whitecastle) is always joking about threatening to fire me. You should probably talk to him about it.
NiceDoc: Really? I think he might be serious.
Moi: I should stop showing up?
NiceDoc: Well, he doesn't mess around.
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